


Survival Value

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook





	Survival Value

**Title:** Survival Value  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson, House/Cuddy  
 **Warning:** Non-explicit het  
 **Time Frame:** Spoilers up to Season 7, Episode 12, "You Must Remember This"; takes place after that episode.

 

 

"Why is this so important to you?" Cuddy asks him, and House keeps it tucked away in the back of his mind in case any kind of answer presents itself.

Halfway through the differential House realizes he's stopped listening courtesy of Master's gratingly chipper voice, snatches up his cane and leaves without a word.

Foreman goes "House!" while Chase shrugs and starts packing his things. Masters just keeps on blabbing and Taub glares from the corner.

The hallway's notably empty, cane and footsteps echoing on his way . . .

House opens the door. "I have a _minor_ crisis." Sits without being asked.

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yes, _do_ come in, House. I certainly have nothing better to do." He takes a minute to type something stupid on his keyboard. "So is there an actual crisis, or . . . ?"

House gasps. "Of course there is! My God, Wilson, do you think I'd fabricate something on the fly out of boredom just to annoy you?"

Wilson gives him a look. "You know I'm not Masters, right? So . . . what is it?"

"I'm _bored_. That guy won't stop lying about his bulimia and anyway it isn't nearly interesting enough for my department . . ."

"For you, you mean."

"That's what I just said."

Wilson squints. "Wait— _how_ do you know he's lying, exactly? It could be cancer . . ."

"Yeah, you _would_ say that."

Wilson sighs and turns back to his computer. House waits for the whining, but nothing seems forthcoming.

"Great, now I'm bored again."

*

The drive home takes longer than usual these days. Mainly because he usually _doesn't_ drive home. Cuddy's house is out-of-the-way and there's a road with one of those 'share the road' signs and a picture of a bike and while it's obnoxious when he's driving a car it's gratifying to pass spandex clad losers on his motorcycle.

Cuddy returns from the kitchen with her customary post-coital tea in its Martha Stewarty mug. Normal people smoke or just go to sleep. I said, _normal_ people smoke or just go to sleep . . .

"You know, normal people—"

"Have you talked to Wilson yet?"

House blinks. "Oh. No. Wilson and I don't really hang out at recess anymore. It's all very philosophical, really—you see, he still feels very strongly that girls have 'cooties', whereas _I_ —"

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "I _meant_ : have you had a real discussion with him?"

"If two people engaging in verbal intercourse counts as a discussion, then yes."

"House."

"Please. He won't shut up about it. You know Wilson—it's shocking to him to have a relationship fall apart. It's a new experience for him so his moping is perfectly understandable . . . "

Cuddy settles more comfortably beside him on the bed, balances her mug on her knee and House appreciates the gracefulness of her legs, looks like a ballerina with them tucked under her like that, toes pointed—and he means that in the sexy way, not the creepy way. She looks at him with this soft knowing look that has stopped seeming motherly and started to put him at ease, which in turn makes him suspicious. She says, "He needs you right now. And you know it. This is different from before."

"How?"

"You need him," Cuddy says instead of answering, but House knows she doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. She doesn't know what it's like to actually need someone.

"It's _not_ different from before," House says instead of answering. "It's never any different with him. Which is probably the conclusion that Sam finally arrived at. He's just . . . " Jealous of us. No, better not say that. "Jealous of us."

Cuddy nods. "You're right."

"Come again?"

"The two of you . . . you do have this tendency to turn into a couple whenever one if you gets out of a relationship."

"Excuse me, a _couple_?"

"Hey, I call it like it is."

"Okay, so, maybe he's feeling a little needy, but that's nothing out of the ordinary, and anyway he was already annoyed at being put on the back burner because of . . ." This. Us. _You_. "I mean, it's not like he didn't have Sam to occupy him at the time, so—"

"Oh no, don't drag me into this. I'm not you're scapegoat."

House makes a face. "You're not? Oh, gosh. Well, this is awkward . . ."

"When has _Wilson_ being in a relationship ever stopped him from being there for you?"

House sighs, gets closer to her. "Can we talk about something other than _Wilson_ , now?" Takes her mug and puts it on the bedside table.

Cuddy grins despite herself. "No."

"Oh, okay. Well maybe we should just stop talking, then . . ."

*

House really is happy. He is. And he isn't even lying to himself, either—he would know, being a board-certified expert.

But Wilson says, "I don't resent that you're happy, House. I actively try to make you happy, which you often point out and are frequently annoyed by."

"No—you just resent that she succeeded in making me happy and you never have."

"I—" Wilson looks gobsmacked, and House is surprised that their little walk and talk scene is being cut short like this. "You." He's pissed. "Bye."

House stands and the hallway watching him depart and feels weird about it. Doesn't need to pop a pill or massage his leg and feels weird about it. Shakes it off and barges into his office in the middle of Taub's sentence.

*

"This is unnecessary," House announces. Wilson starts but doesn't look up from his cafeteria tray.

"What is," Wilson sighs, like he can't believe himself for responding and is already bracing himself.

House sits, gestures at the two of them. "This. It has no survival value."

Wilson's brow furrows quick, directed at his food again. " _Friendship_ , has no value?"

"Exactly."

" _Well_ . . ." And Wilson rearranges himself, elbows on the table with fingers laced but staring down the slow-moving lines at the buffet like that's the only way he's able to think deeply. "You're _wrong_ . . . Biologically. If every living thing lacked the instinct to keep others of their species alive—the herd mentality, and . . . _mating_ and—"

"Some species cannibalize their mates _while_ they're mating," House points out gleefully.

"You know, most people consider their friends an amenity that _gives_ value to survival."

House wants to smile. "You know the quote I'm referencing."

Wilson shrugs. Eats underportioned cornbread. Is back to ignoring him. Needs a haircut.

 _I thought your Wilson fetish was over._ And he hears it as Cuddy leaning over his shoulder whispering admonishments in his ear. Is there _anybody_ left who has no interest in judging him?

As if in answer Wilson doesn't respond.

By 3 o'clock Wilson is loitering around House's office, and even though most of their interaction is dominated by Wilson's sappy whining, at least House makes him laugh a couple of times.

*

It's been long enough since the Sam Incident Part 2 in 3D to drag Wilson out for good old fashioned diner food without having to listen to him talk about her restaurant this or her favorite drink that. And even though he's glad Wilson's let up on the ex-ex- _ex_ talk he's immediately suspicious about it, so he brings it up even though he knows it'll only piss him off. That's okay though—House enjoys getting pissed off for a good reason.

"Why don't you ever manage to stay settled down, anyway?" House says, rolls a straw wrapper between his fingers thoughtfully.

"Well if you want to truth—and I know you won't be satisfied until you get it—you do have a tendency to get in the way."

" _I_ get in the way?"

Wilson's eyes bulge. "Um, yes. As has been illustrated on, really, _numerous_ occasions. The most recent of which led to being rejected after an _impeccably_ planned, _infallibly_ romantic marriage proposal."

House rolls his eyes. He's surprised it's taken Wilson this long to start blaming _him_ for the whole thing. "Oh, don't blame me because Sam finally realized she doesn't want to get re-divorced from you . . . "

"No no no no no. _You_ made me think about the discrepancies in her files from that perspective, from _my_ perspective, you . . ." Wilson looks like a crazy person, seems to think he's really hit on something here, and it's rubbing House the wrong way. " _You_ played into my sense of morality and put the notion in my head that it was okay to call my girlfriend a liar and I blurted it out all wrong and—"

"So the fact that I have spoken to you and you made a conscious decision to say something that you _knew_ would piss her off is my fault? Well, I'm certainly beginning to see how it is that you've never stayed married . . . "

" _House_ —" Wilson cuts himself off, calms. "You do get in the way and you know it. You—" He looks at him. " _Know_. You're not an idiot."

"Yeah, and that makes one of us." House is angry about how angry this is making him, and just when Wilson was almost through the most obnoxious of the moping. House stands, makes to leave.

"Where are you . . . ? _House_."

"Oh me? I was just getting out of the way."

Wilson sighs.

*

"Have you ever needed another person to survive? And don't respond with anything that even smells spiritual or you're fired."

Chase frowns. "Wait, are you talking to me?"

" _No_ , I was talking to Amber, here," House says, gestures to the empty chairs.

Chase's eyebrows climb.

"Too soon?"

Suspicion: "Why do you want my advice?"

"I don't."

"O- _kay_ , then why do you want me to not continue shutting up?"

"I didn't tell you to shut up. Today." House thinks about it. "This afternoon."

Chase shrugs. "Preventative medicine."

Chase has been here the longest. He's endured House the longest of any of his would-be disciples, and he's never really been all that concerned about the Way House Is. It's nice.

"The accent," House explains. "It does it for me."

Chase checks his watch. "Well! The others should be finishing up their lab work soon, so I should probably go and—"

"Oh, shut up." House fidgets with a clicky pen, looks through the glass of the table at where there used to be a stain on the rug. Picks up his train of thought: "That's why you didn't divorce her sooner. That's why you married her in the first place. Fixing people is a fetish of hers, so who could blame you?"

Chase sighs. "I didn't _need_ Cameron. House, nobody _needs_ anybody else. It's just something that society dictates—you're supposed to fall in love and nothing else is supposed to matter. It . . . well, quite honestly, it seems like something you'd say, so I'm sure you've thought of it." He's peering at him though.

"Wilson's like that. Once he finds someone to be in love with nothing else matters."

"You're like that, too." Chase seems surprised when House looks up at him. "I mean, you're obsessive. Like, about work. And Cuddy. And Wilson. And our personal lives and . . . well, anything, really . . ."

"So you've never needed anyone."

"I didn't say _that_ —" House looks at him again and Chase looks surprised again. "You _said_ not to mention anything about religion . . ."

"Oh, Jesus," House mutters.

"Essentially, yes."

*

Cuddy's a good listener, which is useful for the present, but the thing about women is that they're only doing it to have fuel for future retaliation. It's not paranoia; it's fact.

. . . It's not that he _prefers_ Cuddy over Wilson—it differs depending on his mood, and most of the time that means he prefers being free of their judging little comments, so everybody/nobody wins.

It's like anything—you get used to having certain people around, certain lunch spots and certain long-standing feuds. And House is used to Cuddy, used to hating her or loving her or generally obsessing over her, used to Wilson obsessing over him, used to his desk at work and used to his brand of deodorant. Keeping Cuddy makes sense because he can't even imagine a substitute boss, by turns flirty or loathing, whose face he's watched modulate through fickle cosmetic fashions since college.

But for now he's driving to the stupid gallery opening with Wilson because Cuddy's taking Rachel to ballet . . .

"I thought it was tap," Wilson says.

Whatever.

"House?"

"I'm dating her _mom_ , not her. Just in case you were confused about that and Chris Hansen's lying in wait at the next stop sign."

It's nice to have Wilson driving, no matter that House's leg doesn't hurt. Lets his unendingly multitasking mind not so much rest as focus better.

Wilson doesn't respond, just flicks on his turn signal and pretends to be engrossed in traffic. Something about the way he holds himself makes House think, _We're no longer on the same wavelength. How did that happen? When did that happen?_

And Cuddy, over his shoulder: _You've gotta let that guy alone._

And apparently Wilson's determined to brood the entire ride over, which is fine by House—he can brood Wilson under the table any day. But something about the background silence and the bland landscape and House's unusual focus on matching Wilson's apathetic mood is enraging. Wilson's ignoring him nonchalantly and that's _enraging_. So House just says:

"What's it to you, anyway?"

Wilson raises his eyebrows slowly, opens his mouth slowly—

"You're the one whose obsessed with getting me happy happy happy. And now that I _am_ , you're—" Annoyed? Jealous? _Nothing_? "—PMS'ing about it."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Come on, help me find a parking spot."

*

They don't talk for a while, until of course they do, and it's at Wilson's place after pizza with ancient memories of roommatedom the air that House snaps, "Since when have I leant a sympathetic ear to your pathetic love life, Wilson?"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Well, would you _care_ to enlighten me?"

Wilson takes a minute to breathe deeply, addresses the floor with this stern choppy hand gesture: "If you look up 'selfish' in the dictionary there's just a picture of you cackling at my ability to feel emotions and . . . honestly, House? I'm okay with that! I understand how you are. I've made peace with your survival instinct, and I'm not hurt when you do something that's in your nature, _but_! _But_ , whether you've admitted it to yourself for not, you've always helped me through my shit, my breakups and my stupid issues, just by being around and paying extra pestering attention to me and keeping me so un-lonely that I _want_ to be rid of you. And that's your way, House, and I understand that. But now? It's not that you're too self-absorbed to care in your own screwed up way—it's that you're to Cuddy-absorbed to care. Because you're finally happy, it's harder for you to commiserate so you're lazier about . . . you know, barging into my office unannounced or yelling at me about how stupid I'm being like you are now. It's always been all about _you_ —but now that it's about her too I can barely even recognize you."

House blinks at Wilson's monologue. "I'm pretty sure there's a rule about dividing that up into multiple paragraphs or something . . . "

"You're making a mistake!" House can feel his eyes widen at Wilson's volume. "There! Is that what you wanted to hear? You're going to screw it up with Cuddy just like you always do and you'll never be happy and you don't _want_ to be happy and your leg hurts. Is that right? Is that what a good friend is supposed to tell you? People don’t change just because they wish they could, right? _Right_?"

House is fascinated, talks quietly: " _Why_ are you so pissed?" Why aren't you happy I'm happy? _Just fucking tell me already._

"Why is this so important to you," Wilson says, sounds suddenly devoid of anything.

"What the hell does that have to do with—?"

"Why am I so important to you. Why don't you . . . _hate_ me yet? Like everybody else."

"Because!" Gestures. "Because you're—"

Wilson raises his eyebrows expectantly.

House stares. ". . . I thought you were gonna cut me off."

" _I am_ ," Wilson says, walking, closing, kissing him like he's fed up with not.

It's a bold opening move, and Wilson doesn't hold back—holds House's arms as if to anticipate some kind of counterattack, rejection, acceptance. House smells Wilson's smell and tastes wimpy Bud Light Lime and his heart races with the same wash of relief that comes with the knowledge of Vicodin about to kick in. Something mind-numbing and wonderfully forbidden about to kick in. House kisses back and thinks about how different it feels because of their equal height or equal dependency. Or equality.

Wilson pulls back, reluctant but aware that it's House's move, panting and looking at him with his fingernails digging into House's forearms.

House strains against his grip to meet their mouths again, and Wilson makes a miniscule noise into it, opens his mouth quick because he's easy like that. House tilts his head to taste deeper but Wilson anticipates wrong and their noses bump and the moment's all full of breath and indescribably erotic. House gets one hand free to seize Wilson's chin and force the angle of the kiss hotter, wetter, better.

The way House is attempting to consume him makes them start to spin in a big arc across the living room, journeying far and wide over tile and carpet alike, dancing with Wilson's feet tripping them up and ending with Wilson's back against the wall ungently—the impact parts their superglued lips with a graphic wet sound.

Wilson stares down at the space between them while House touches up his wrist and arm and neck and ear unthinkingly—Wilson lets go of a shaky exhale that makes House kiss him again.

This time it's slower, composed only of the light brush of lips and breath that cause heart rates to stutter even better than a roller coaster. Wilson's tongue slips into the mix, tentative swipes before their faces jumble, Wilson's groan over House's cheek, House sucking his upper lip when he gets the chance. It slows impossibly more from there although the fire under House's skin now threatens to involve the entire building.

Their foreheads rest together and House knows they should talk about this—knows they won't, and it's okay because God knows they talk too much.

Wilson retreats enough to look up at him and House recognizes need—it's Wilson's specialty as much as oncology. More.

House clutches at the front of Wilson's shirt and they leave the wall without another kiss, stumble over each other to the nearby couch and House shivers at Wilson's hands on him, up under his T-shirt and yanking it over his head, going for House's jeans when House thwarts him, gets Wilson's belt undone and he's about to—

Wilson unbalances them carelessly like nobody else ever would and gets on top of House on the couch, pushes him down fast when he tries to lean up to him, magnetized, keeps House's hands still and licks from his collarbone to his neck where he bites softly and sucks hard.

House works a hand free—it figures that Wilson would try to control him even in this—squirms until he's got his palm flat against the noticeable swell between Wilson's legs, squeezes. Wilson nudges into the pressure, makes an unconscious noise and lifts his head to capture House's mouth again. He's distracted enough that House can free his other hand to feel over Wilson's muscle-bunched back and twist his hair, keep him there for a kiss and bruise their lips in the process. Mouths slip for a minute and Wilson gasps and House licks into him easily and the sounds Wilson makes are addictive because they're not obligatorily, overly profuse female encouragements—they're honest and instinctive and the familiar lilt to them makes House feel desperate.

House tries to flip them on the cramped couch but Wilson's more aware than he'd suspected, shifts gears quick and holds him down again with a victorious grin. House gets breathless, laughs and wants him immediately.

But the feeling that's driving him isn't sexual in origin—every motion, every impulse is guided by need, and the only way to translate such pure and looming need is through the medium of lust, apparently. House has never thought so little about the equations of intercourse—what action produces what reaction—and he's never let such a formidable feeling dictate anything, ever. Wonders if this is how Wilson feels all the time.

Meanwhile, Wilson's got House's jeans open and is jerking him off while grinding against House's thigh (and of course _Wilson's_ diplomatically ignoring the bad leg) seeking more kisses with hair falling rakishly in his face like it's the work of a stylist. House can't get enough of the way their lips fit together.

House lets his fingers trail down the back of Wilson's neck, feels him shiver, sweeps around his rib cage first over and then under his shirt before sliding into Wilson's empty beltloops to urge him closer, closer, until House can pull his cock out all the way and stroke them both together.

Wilson tries to moan at that but it breaks, just thrusts into House's hands and against House's cock, first out of reach but then so close and the buttons on his shirt sticking to House's sticky chest, breathing hard to the couch cushion and House's ear and House moves his hands in tandem with Wilson's thrusts until Wilson gets louder and louder and stiffens and comes with a wonderfully low grunt. Barely spares a minute for himself before sitting back to finish House off with a truly ingenious flick of the wrist and deep sloppy kisses that make House's head spin amid the building pleasure. House grabs Wilson's arm hard even though it's counterintuitive, comes with his eyes closed and their tongues tangled.

Still on top of him, still sex-drunk and depleted, Wilson murmurs, "Now what?"

House shrugs. "Rocks fall, everyone dies?"

*


End file.
